"The business where you nearly got your throat slit."

"Yes," Nadine snapped and sat again. "And I haven't forgotten who made sure I didn't. I liked him, Dallas. Damn it, he's got a wife, kids." She brooded a moment, pretty fingers tapping her knee. "The station's going to be in an uproar when this hits. And half the media around the world. How did it happen?"

"At this point, we believe he surprised an intruder."

"So much for security," she muttered. "Walked in on a damn burglary."

Eve said nothing, pleased that Nadine had jumped to that particular conclusion.

"A connection?" Her eyes sharpened. "Shawn Conroy was Irish, too. Do you believe he was involved in the burglary? Did they know each other?"

"We'll investigate that angle."

"Roarke's Irish."

"So I've heard," Eve said dryly. "Off the record," she began, and waited for Nadine's reluctant nod. "Roarke knew Shawn Conroy back in Ireland. It's possible – just possible – that the house where Conroy was taken out was being cased. It was furnished – well, as I'm sure you can imagine how well. And the new tenants weren't due to move in for a couple of days. Until we nail things down a bit, I'd like to keep Roarke's name out of it, or as far in the background as possible."

"Shouldn't be hard at this point. Every station, and certainly ours, is going to hit with the Brennen story – then we'll do a lot of retrospectives, biographies, that sort of thing. I've got to get this in."

She leaped up again. "Appreciate it."

"Don't." Eve unlocked the door, opened it. "You'll pay for it eventually."

And now, Eve mused, rubbing her temple, she could only hope she could bluff and bullshit her commander with half as much success.

"Your report seems sparse, Lieutenant," Whitney commented after Eve had finished backing up her written report with an oral one.

"We don't have a lot to work with at this stage, Commander." She sat, face composed, voice bland, meeting Whitney's sharp dark eyes without a blink. "McNab from EDD is working on the jams and trace, but he doesn't appear to be having much success. Feeney will be back in about a week."

"McNab has a very good record with the department."

"That may be, but so far, he's stumped. His words, Commander. The killer is highly skilled in electronics and communications. It's possible that's his link with Brennen."

"That wouldn't explain Conroy."

"No, sir, but the Irish connection does. They knew each other, casually at least, in Dublin some years ago. It's possible they continued, or renewed, the acquaintance in New York. As you've reviewed the tape of the transmissions I received from the killer, you know the motive is revenge. The killer knew them, most likely in Dublin. Conroy continued to live in Dublin until three years ago. Brennen has his main residence there. It would be to our benefit to enlist the aid of the Dublin police to investigate that angle. Something these men did, or some deal they were part of in Ireland in the last few years."

"Roarke has interests there as well."

"Yes, sir, but he's had no recent dealings with either Conroy or Brennen. I checked. He's had no business or personal contact with them in a more than a decade."

"Revenge often takes time to chill." He steepled his fingers and studied Eve over the tips. "Do you intend to bring Summerset back into Interview?"

"I'm weighing that option, Commander. His alibi for the time of Brennen's murder is weak, but it's plausible. Audrey Morrell confirmed their date. It's more than possible they confused the times. The manner of Brennen's death, and Conroy's as well, doesn't fit Summerset. He isn't physical enough to have managed it."

"Not alone."

Eve felt her stomach stutter but nodded. "No, not alone. Commander, I'll pursue the leads. I'll investigate Summerset and any and all suspects, but it's my personal belief, and a strong personal belief, that Summerset would do nothing to harm or implicate Roarke in any way. He is devoted – even overly devoted. And I believe, Commander, that Roarke is a future target. He's the goal. That's why I was contacted."

Whitney said nothing for a moment as he measured Eve. Her eyes were clear and direct, her voice had been steady. He imagined she was unaware that she'd linked her fingers together and that her knuckles were white.

"I agree with you. I could ask you if you'd prefer to be taken off the case, but I'd be wasting my breath."

"Yes, sir."

"You'll interview Roarke." He paused while she remained silent. "And I imagine there will be no official report of said interview. Be careful how far you bend the rules, Dallas. I don't want to lose one of my best officers."

"Commander." She rose. "His mission isn't complete. He'll contact me again. I've already got a feel for him, an impression of type, but I'd like to consult with Dr. Mira on a profile as soon as possible."

"Arrange it."

"And I intend to work as much as possible out of my home. My equipment there is… superior to what's available to me at Cop Central."

Whitney allowed a smirk to twist his wide face. "I bet it is. I'm going to allow you as much free rein as I can on this, for as long as I can. I can tell you that time will be short. If there's another body, that time's going to be even shorter."

"Then I'll work fast."

Halfway up the long, curving drive Eve sat in her car and studied the house that Roarke built. That wasn't entirely accurate, she supposed. The structure would have been there for more than a century, ready for someone with money and vision to buy it. He'd had both and had polished a stone and glass palace that suited him beautifully.

She was at home there now, or more at home than she'd ever imagined she could be. There with the towers and turrets, the graceful lawns and glamorous shrubberies. She lived among the staggering antiques, the thick carpets from other lands, the wealth and the privilege.

Roarke had earned it – in his way. She had done nothing more than tumble into it.

They had both come from the streets and misery, and had chosen different paths to make their own. She had needed the law, the order, the discipline, the rules. Her Childhood had been without any of them, and the early years that she had so successfully blanked out for so long had begun to hurtle back at her, viciously, violently, over the past months.

Now she remembered too much, and still not all.

Roarke, she imagined, remembered all, in fluid and perfeet detail. He wouldn't allow himself to forget what he'd been or where he'd come from. He used it.

His father had been a drunk. And so had hers. His father had abused him. And so had hers. Their childhoods had been smashed beyond repair, and so they had built themselves into adults at an early age, one standing for the law, and one dancing around it.

Now they were a unit, or trying to be.

But how much of what she had made herself, and he had made himself, could blend?

That was about to be tested, and their marriage, still so new and bright, so terrifying and vital to her, would either hold or fail.

She drove the rest of the way, parking at the base of the old stone steps. She left her car there, where it consistently annoyed Summerset, and carried a small box of file discs into the house.

Summerset was in the foyer. He would have known the moment she'd driven through the iron gates, she imagined. And he would have wondered why she'd stopped for so long.

"Is there a problem with your vehicle, Lieutenant?"

"No more than usual." She stripped off her jacket, and out of habit, tossed it over the newel post.

"You left it in front of the house."